


Underneath

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek - Various Authors, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, Dom/sub, Dominance, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Humiliation, M/M, Rough Sex, Submission, mild breathplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 15:04:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A moment of their odd ‘relationship.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The TOS book I’m reading right now (The Starless Sky) lead to this, but these are obvious AOS personalities... Anyway, **warning** , this contains hardcore (but consensual) D/S dynamics and near-violent roughness. Please heed the tags.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

McCoy pauses for the briefest second, and Spock shifts in the pillow, trying to glance back. He has to wonder vaguely if he’s done something wrong. This isn’t the sort of thing he can study, the sort of thing he can think through, the sort of thing that has a sensible conclusion. It’s more that he just does what he’s told, but McCoy’s a clumsy teacher, and there are holes in all Spock’s lessons. 

But McCoy’s back to another hard thrust before Spock even gets a good look at him. It forces Spock to close his eyes, lips falling apart. He clenches his teeth a moment later; the next one’s even harder. McCoy never fucks shallow. Sometimes Spock feels like it’s not his bodyweight holding him to the mattress; it’s McCoy’s monster cock pinning him in place. 

The hand holding down his left wrist slides over his arm, and Spock shivers at the fleeting touch, knowing better than to squirm. They’ll just get into another argument about how he never _behaves_ , and they spend enough time doing that on the bridge. All the little verbal duels have this inevitable end, something more physical. They’re always battles Spock should win. He’s got a species advantage—Vulcans are faster, stronger, _better_ —but the doctor’s older, more experienced, and somehow Spock usually ends up like this, lying on his stomach, getting pounded into the mattress like the ex-wife McCoy sometimes calls him. McCoy’s fingers reach the back of his neck and thread into his hair, and Spock braces himself for more taunting, how perfect and shiny his hair is. 

Instead, McCoy nuzzles into his neck and bites it, fiercely, teeth digging into his skin. Spock grunts against the pillow and tries not to scream, both hands fisting in the sheets. Humans and their _biting._ It doesn’t make any sense.

McCoy’s explained it before. He likes to mark what’s his. Spock’s said, shivering and in the middle of being fucked raw, that he knows to whom he belongs. The doctor’s laughed and said it’s for everyone else, for _Jim_ to know that his precious first officer is in the habit of getting down on his knees.

Spock groans when the next bite, sharp enough to draw blood, coincides perfectly with the next thrust. McCoy’s cock lingers like his teeth do, throbbing inside Spock’s ass and stretching his soaked walls, making Spock shudder and spasm around it. He can feel all the girth, every little vein—he knows he’s got a sensitive ass compared to full humans; McCoy’s done the research and laughed at him about it. It’s frustrating. He shouldn’t feel that. It’s not worth fighting if this is the result. Only logical. If he wants the doctor at peak efficiency, he has to let the doctor have some fun. 

The doctor’s fun always seems to be in taking Spock apart. His teeth trail around and up to the slope of Spock’s ear, cock slipping out again. Spock shifts his head; he knows what’s coming. The free hand wraps around his throat, thumb mockingly caressing his jaw line, and he’s held firmly in place for the next deep thrust. He grunts. McCoy chuckles. They’ve done this enough that Spock should know how to take cock better. 

McCoy bites the shell of his ear and drags hard teeth right up to the tip, tugging on it. Spock’s sensitive flesh protests, warming and most likely filling with blood. McCoy squeezes his throat when the next thrust comes. The combination of his whole body being shoved into the mattress, chest and lungs crushed beneath the doctor’s weight, and his windpipe being flattened makes him struggle, strong though he is. McCoy chuckles. Spock can feel all of McCoy, his warm, slightly sweating chest glued to Spock’s back, and he can feel the laughter reverberating into him. 

It happens again on the next thrust. Spock’s robbed of breath. This would be easier if McCoy had a more reasonable dick, not something quite so... mammoth. Spock tries to say as he’s slipped halfway out of, “You are making it difficult to breathe.”

He’s punished for his insolence with an impossibly deeper thrust and tighter squeeze of his neck. He could move his free hand to try and pull McCoy’s away, but he doesn’t. Maybe it’s because every time that giant cock slams into his prostate, all he can do is melt with the heat and pleasure, or maybe it’s because he’s that well trained. It hurts and it feels good. He doesn’t know how to feel about that. He doesn’t get a chance to feel anything but what the doctor lets him. 

“I want to see that green mess you call blood,” McCoy hisses suddenly, and when his cock slams back in, it stays there, grinding into Spock’s abused ass and making him gasp. “I want your cheeks to burn with it and your freak ears to look what they are, my little devil...”

Earth devils, Spock’s discovered, are more red than green. But Spock knows better than to expect logic of the doctor at a time like this, and he shuts his eyes, trying to blush faster. Being choked somewhat lessens the enjoyment of being fucked so thoroughly; he’ll do what he must to get through that.

He thinks of indulging one of McCoy’s dirty fantasies on the bridge, thinks of letting himself get bent over his station, his pants shoved down and his ass spanked raw in front of everyone, while McCoy scolds him for being _illogical._ The shame at just the thought rises in his skin, and he knows from McCoy’s pleased snicker that it’s working. He thinks of all the ‘medical tests’ the doctor puts him through and how even this started; his quarters opening and McCoy storming in, shoving him to the mattress and barking at him for whatever it is they argued about this time, the captain’s orders or some stellar phenomenon. He instinctively tries to bury his face in the pillow to hide his embarrassment, but he’s choked again and held right where he is. 

McCoy licks at the tip of his ear and chuckles, “Good little hobgoblin,” sounding something like a monster. The hand around his throat loosens. The next thrust is all pleasure, and Spock tries to stifle the mewling noise that rises in his throat just as much as the scream. The hand that held him returns to his other wrist so that both are pinned down. He lets the doctor have at all his differences, and he enjoys his share of the doctor, just more quietly. 

He enjoys the doctor’s strong body. He enjoys the six-pack grinding into his spine, the coarse hair grinding into his ass, _especially_ the thick cock pounding into him, and he knows it looks, tastes, even smells every bit as glorious as it feels. He enjoys the grunting noises McCoy makes and the obvious pleasure Spock causes—they never say it, but McCoy likes him just as much as he likes McCoy. He knows that. He _likes_ all their games. Likes that the doctor’s smart enough to keep up, to match him word for word. He likes how exaggerated and easy to read his faux-perpetually-grumpy doctor is. He likes that he can break that grumpy exterior down into a feral beast, and he particularly likes getting fucked so hard that it would be difficult to walk tomorrow if not for McCoy’s medical expertise, even if he won’t say it. 

He’s starting to like the way McCoy nuzzles into and sucks and bites the point of his ear: some bizarre fetish that’ll never be admitted. Next time they’re on the bridge and McCoy makes his usual biting insults, Spock’s going to taunt with his eyes, ‘ _you love that about me._ ’

The only thing he doesn’t like is that McCoy makes him too bitter for a Vulcan, too emotional. This much passion isn’t good. He can’t always control it. His father would be ashamed. 

He’s ashamed, and he _loves_ it anyway. A languid moan betrays him, and McCoy snickers and growls, “You love it. Tell me you love my cock.”

Spock shakes his head against the mattress. Another thrust makes him groan. McCoy’s right hand leaves his right wrist and snakes down his body, and Spock goes temporarily rigid, the tension fucked out in the next second. He hasn’t had his own cock touched this whole time, rarely does—he contents himself with humping the mattress, with McCoy’s powerful thrusts making him do so, with the pleasure bursts alight in his ass. McCoy’s hand stops at his waist, squeezing and snarling, “ _Tell me you love it._ ”

It’s too good. McCoy has experience and Spock has Vulcan stamina; they could do this for hours. Always close to the brink. Spock’s almost trembling with pleasure; McCoy’s thrusts have sped up during his demands to a nearly impossible rate, so hard and fast that Spock can barely stand it. He licks his lips. He desperately wants McCoy to kiss him. He should never be _desperate_ for anything; that doesn’t serve any purpose. He tries to school his voice into his regular neutrality, free of inflection, but it shakes in odd places. “I... love it.”

“Say the rest.” The back of his neck is bitten again. Spock lets out a weak cry. 

“I love your... cock...” He still tries to say it like it’s nothing, just a fact, but it’s hard, so hard. He’s a solid rock against the soft sheets below, and he’d rut like a wild sehlat if he could, if it weren’t out of his control. His knuckles are tight. He’s rewarded with a messy lick over the bruise. 

The better reward is McCoy’s hand finally slipping around his waist and down his stomach, cupping his cock. McCoy likes to brag that he has the most talented hands on the ship. Spock knows it’s true.

McCoy squeezes him once, half-hisses, half-laughs a taunting, “ _I love you too_ ,” and Spock comes with a wild cry, a beautiful humiliation.

But he still lets McCoy ride it out, and he’ll still open his doors next week, and he’ll still spare glances at McCoy’s ass tomorrow. He spirals down into a panting mess of things he shouldn’t be and regrets himself.

But he never regrets his boyfriend.


End file.
